


It's you and I and no one else

by SatanInACroptop



Series: Carry It With No Regrets [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Finally, First Time, M/M, More consent than you can shake a dildo at, THE ONE WITH THE SMUT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 12:46:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2508389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SatanInACroptop/pseuds/SatanInACroptop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles thinks it’s good that it's quiet. He's not sure he would want to do this, to finally initiate what Peter must want desperately, under the hazards of circumstance or the fear of loss. Sex should be about them, about Stiles wanting Peter and Peter only, not because he's afraid of never doing this before he's gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's you and I and no one else

There is nothing special about this night.

Kate Argent isn't currently a threat, having been chased out of town by her older brother. No one has recently been killed or nearly died. There is no imminent danger, and otherwise no elaborate date planned. Stiles knows better than to go out on the town with Peter in Beacon Hills, and he's too nervous to stray far from his own center of murder and mayhem anyway. Other places could mean other packs to navigate, and those packs may not be werewolves.

Stiles had only been over for nearly an hour, having just slipped away as his father had gone off to work. His absence is not a secret. The Sheriff thinks Stiles doesn't like to be home by himself after everything he's seen, and he isn't wrong. As always Stiles is saying with his friends. It's not his fault that his friend happens to be 36 years old and also knows how to make him come in under five minutes each and every morning. There's a certain flick to the wrist on the upstroke that the werewolf has down to an art form.

Peter Hale is curled up on the opposite end of the couch, about a third of the way through Dances with Dragons while the news plays in the background. It's a local station. Stiles knows he only watches it because he doesn't trust Scott or Derek to keep an eye on things, and nor does he truly have the strength to be patrolling on his own. They are not exactly cuddling, but instead sitting on opposite ends with their feet tangled together, comfortable in their silence while Stiles goes over Lydia's notes for trigonometry. Her method of dealing with logs is better than the textbook.

When the news moves from local happenings to yet another schpeel about the raging forest fires outside San Diego, Stiles switches it off and gets up for a glass of water. He knows where everything in the kitchen is, and the glass is still warm from the dishwasher when he fills it from the tap. Peter is doing that thing that he's only just started doing in the past month or so (Stiles isn't sure when exactly it started happening, only that it never did before), where his fingers absentmindedly run over the side of his face that Stiles remembers well as the one still covered in scars when they first met. When Peter, even out of his mind with rage and power, still knew his name.

Now here he is, lounging out without a care in the world, comfortable enough to fall into familiar ticks and habits. This isn't new. And yet, it stirs something. Seeing Peter, lounging out on the sofa in the same sweats her wore earlier for tai chi and a white wife beater, rustles something from his emotional depths that is more than safety, or comfort, or desire. It's the feeling that shifts from _I want_ to _I have._

And it does not go without notice, because for the first time in nearly five minutes of Stiles drinking his water and watching Peter from the kitchen, the werewolf tucks the sleeve of the dust jacket over the page, and looks at the boy who is anything but a boy curiously, his head tilted off to one side. He doesn't say anything, he just looks, the slight upturn of his lips a sly question he no longer needs to voice out loud, though the raise of the eyebrows says that if Stiles doesn't explain himself, he just might.

Stiles doesn't say anything. Not because he doesn't want to, but because he has no idea what to say. He puts the glass down in the kitchen sink, and moves through the living room until he's standing by Peter at the edge of the couch. His long fingers pluck the book out of his hands, taking care that the man doesn't lose his place as he sets it on the coffee table by the empty cup of tea. Peter turns his head to the other side, his brown hair touching the back of the couch, like Stiles is a puzzle he's maybe just beginning to figure out at last.

He still makes a sound of surprise when Stiles crawls onto his lap and kisses him deeply without hesitation. His fingers card through Peter's hair, like they don't do this every day, and Peter licks his way into Stiles mouth slowly and methodically. Stiles thinks it’s good that it's quiet. He's not sure he would want to do this, to finally initiate what Peter must want desperately, under the hazards of circumstance or the fear of loss. Sex should be about them, about Stiles wanting Peter and Peter only, not because he's afraid of never doing this before he's gone.

When Stiles rolls his boney hips into Peter's own, the man lets out a choked off gasp Stiles didn't think he had in him. It's then that Peter takes his face in his hands, slender fingers gently cradling him along his jaw line, fingertips rubbing along his neck.

"Stiles," he pants, and God, he loves that he can do this to him, even though he seldom does. His pupils are blown wide, circles of black against the blue that even human is stupidly beautiful. Brilliant monsters should not have eyes the color of a perfect fall sky, crisp and bright. Peter's lips are spit slicked and kiss swollen, and the feeling tugs at his gut again. "Stiles. I need to know what you're after."

Stiles smiles, bright and wide, a rarer occurrence than most would think of him. Peter's hands are running up and down his back.

"You. I'm after you. I'm..." Stiles doesn't know how to say it. Sex makes it sound too casual, and fucking isn't it either. Fucking was Stiles jerking him off while Peter blew him. This, this is a completely different level of trust and need. "I'm ready."

Peter laughs, and anyone else would think he was making fun of him, if they couldn't see the shock in his eyes, the incredulous grin that is not at all taunting. And in true Peter form, Peter doesn't ask him if he's sure, and he doesn't advise him to perhaps reconsider, since it’s only been a few months. Peter simply kisses him, a kiss that tries not to be desperate but still exhibits the tell-tale clacking of teeth and smooshed noses. Stiles pulls back to breathe, and nips on his lip. He carefully extracts himself from Peter's lap to stand by the couch, and holds out a hand to him.

Stiles wonders when the last time Peter was given a hand to hold as the man takes it firmly, fingers intertwining, and to Stiles surprise, allows the teenager to lead the way.

"What, no carrying me bridal style?" Stiles asks, laughing even as Peter gives him a firm shove between the shoulder blades, just enough to shove him face first into the soft bed. Peter pulls 0ff his wife beater with little ceremony, and Stiles turns over, licking his lips at the sight. It's been almost half a year, and it still gets him each and every time.

"You wouldn't like it if I did."

Stiles laughs, because he's not wrong. He's still laughing softly when he pulls the red t-shirt over his head, and the way Peter's looking at him, no one is laughing then. Clothes. They need to get rid of the clothes, so Stiles moves to kneel on the bed, undoing the cloth belt that keeps the denim on his limber frame, when Peter's hands knock away his shaking fingers and shove the offending clothing down his hips and past his knees. When Stiles looks up at him, he's already naked. That must be a world record.

Peter's laughing again, so Stiles must have said that part out loud. His expressions grows lightly serious as he frees him of the last of his clothes, his warm hands settling just over his biceps, thumbs rubbing into the edge of his collar bones just so.

"If at any point you're not comfortable, we will stop. There will be no questions, no hesitation, no pushing of any kind. Do you understand?"

Peter is giving Stiles the go ahead to literally drive him to the brink of sanity, and do nothing about it if he chose, all for the sake of Stiles' comfort. He could weep. He’s fairly certain most kids his own age wouldn't be so kind.

"I understand."

Peter moves like he wants to lean him back into the pillows, but Stiles isn't having any of it. He wraps his long legs around Peter's waist and digs his fingers into his shoulders to mouth at the sensitive lines along his collar bones, causing Peter to let loose a moan that Stiles hopes will be the first of many. Their dick's are only just touching between them, and when Stiles rolls his hips as he sucks one nipple into his mouth, the barely there friction is enough to drive them both mad.

Stiles leans back only to put the bottle of lube in Peter's hand. Peter kisses him like he means to taste every cell of his mouth, licking along the roof of the boy’s mouth. Stiles moans so loudly he doesn't even hear the bottle open. When Peter takes too long to slick up his fingers, Stiles pulls away and bites down on the werewolf’s neck, hard enough to pull a hiss from the man's condescending mouth.

Then there's a slicked finger tracing the line of his ass from behind, rubbing circles around the puckered rim, before finally, finally pushing in. The slender finger isn't nearly enough, and it’s not even a minute until Stiles is whining for more, clutching Peter around his shoulders and panting in the man's ear. Peter, who is mouthing at his neck, lightly chewing on it like it’s an affectionate thing, laughs and gives him what he wants, two fingers scissoring in his ass to stretch the boy open.

None of it hurts at all, not with the way Stiles has done this before, not with the way Peter is still ever so slowly rocking his hips into the teenager so their dick's brush together with each pelvic grind. When Peter shifts the hand currently playing with his ass, the two fingers brush against the sensitive spot that Stiles can never quite find on his own, and it throws his back into an arch, pulls a sound from the werewolf that is a moan and a growl, rolled together in a noise that only makes his dick harder.

_"Stiles"_

Stiles didn't even realize his eyes were closed until he opens them. Peter looks wild. This is the thing that lurks beneath the thinly veiled illusion of control - blue eyes that practically glow blown black and wide with desire and surprise. He looks like he means to devour him. Vaguely, distantly, Stiles is fairly certain that a sane person would be terrified. But the fact that Stiles, thin, gangly, unappealing Stiles, is able to pull this out of Peter, turns him on far too boldly to be afraid of anything.

"Please don't stop," Stiles whimpers. Peter's answer is to pull Stiles down so he can lick the boy’s lips while he presses a third finger inside of him. It does hurt then, an ache that seems to throb outward to the rest of his ass, a burn that pulls a hiss from his teeth. And even though Peter looks ready to pull him apart, he waits, three fingers just barely shifting in and out of him.

"Just relax Stiles," he pants into his ear, "Open up for me sweetheart."

Stiles swallows hard, and when Peter massages the back of his head, he does, moaning into the feeling of gentle fingers rubbing into his scalp. That the term of endearment is not shocking or new shows just how far they've come, how long the werewolf and the boy have patiently waited to get here.

Peter doesn't make another move to continue until Stiles is grinding back into Peter's hand, whimpering and begging for it. Stiles isn't left to simper for more then the seconds it takes for Peter to withdraw his fingers, slick his cock with the lube covering his hand, and lower Stiles onto him with little preamble.

He holds Stiles by the hips like he weights nothing at all, letting him take in his length as gradually as the boy's virgin ass needs. The tight heat gripping around him has Peter's eyes blown wide, mouth hanging open as if he's forgotten how it works, and he doesn't let his eyes slide shut, because he couldn't take his gaze off Stiles if he tried. Stiles, whose back is arched so the sensitive skin brushes Peter's chest hair, whose warm honey eyes are looking at Peter in some form of amazement he's never seen until now.

Stiles rocks gently in Peter's lap, feeling the man's erection grind inside him, a pleasant tease of what's to come. It takes everything Peter has not to pin Stiles hips in place and thrust up into the warmth of the boy's body. For Stiles, he clutches the sheets, refusing to move an inch.

"God, you just love to watch me beg, don't you?" Stiles finally says as his breath becomes less shallow, his ass loosening up around him as his body finally adjusts to the new sensation of being so full.

The soft smile Peter gives him makes his stomach flip, the same one that he wakes up to every morning he wakes up next to him, the side that only Stiles is ever privy to.

"I want you to be in control. I won't rush you Stiles, I won't take this from you."

Stiles heart does a full on cart-wheel. Peter kisses him, and the wolf bites down on his lip harder than he means to because Stiles has of course chosen this exact moment to bounce on top of his dick with a resounding smack of flesh on flesh. Peter's hands are on his hips, Stiles fingers are clinging to his shoulder blades, digging deep into the expanse of muscle there. Peter pulls back from the kiss to look at him, to make sure, and Stiles nods his consent.

Peter isn't so much thrusting up into him, as he is bouncing Stiles on his lap, helping the inexperienced boy stop spazzing and find a natural rhythm. It's not rough, or animalistic, but it is no less enthusiastic, and Peter knows he isn't going to last. So he circles his hips until Stiles shudders. When he thrusts up, Stiles screams a curse and a plea of Peter's name.  He doesn't beg to come, because Stiles is never one to beg, but he's not above telling Peter how much he needs it in explicit detail. Peter takes one hand off his hip and licks from palm to fingertip without preamble, wrapping Stiles dick in his slick grip.

He lets himself move faster, but not harder, hitting that spot inside Stiles again and again, twisting his hand just so around his cock until Stiles muscles draw up tight around him, and the boy comes with a scream. Peter can hear his heart rate skyrocket as the boy heaves for breathe, can feel the chemical euphoria rush that Stiles is happily drowning in, and has to bite back a crack about fucking him so hard he's lost brain cells. He’ll save it for tomorrow morning when Stiles is pleasantly sore.

 Only when Stiles dick is soft in his hand and his ass loose around him again does Peter lower him gently to the bed, and truly let himself go. It takes less than a minute to give in, just a few hard thrusts with Stiles legs wrapped around his waist, Stiles hands in his hair cradling Peter to him, Stiles gasping for breathe and urging him to come, does he spill inside of him, content to bask and writhe in the same dump of chemicals as his lover, his confidante, his friend.

There is no pull of claws or urge to shift. Stiles keeps him human.

Peter kisses him so chaste it would be fitting for an elegant date, not an asshole full of Peter's dick that’s begun to leak with his come.

"You're perfect," Stiles says as Peter pets Stiles hair with one hand, the other rubbing lazy circles into the sharp line at his pelvis.

Peter grins from ear to ear, and Stiles senses it somehow, because he opens his eyes and if he were anyone else, he would think Peter were plotting to kill them all. But he isn't. When Peter smiles at home with Stiles, there’s no violence behind it.

"Just wait till I eat your ass," he says, his voice as wrecked and fucked out as Stiles feels. "Or until I let you fuck me."

"Oh my God! You can't just say that right now."

Stiles dick still twitches in interest, even though there is no way he's moving again for another hour. Peter still hasn't pulled out of him, and Stiles is torn between telling him to do so because it's going to get gross, and begging him not to because it feels so good.

Peter rolls them on to the side, pulling Stiles closer until his head is under the man's chin, stubble tickling his forehead, his back being gently massaged by very strong and capable hands. He nuzzles into his chest hair, and doesn't say a word beyond nonsensical murmurings of content.

Gross can wait.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry this took ages to write. I have three entirely completed versions of this, and this is the only one I wrote that I actually liked, so I hope you guys enjoyed it too.
> 
> I run a very Peter Hale/Steter centric tumblr under the same url, sataninacroptop. Stop by and say hi sometime. Or just, creep about like ya do.


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